The Enemy
by typedamon
Summary: Set after 2x07. Disturbed by the rifts that are building in her marriage, Mary seeks a way to absolve she and Francis' emotional distance. In turn, she finds herself seeking solace in the arms of another.
1. Chapter 1

Full Summary: Set after 2x07. Disturbed by the rifts that are building in her marriage, Mary seeks a way to absolve she and Francis' emotional distance. In turn, she finds herself seeking solace in the arms of another.

**THE ENEMY  
><strong>Chapter One

_"I'm guessing you're over me, I'm guessing it's just bravery."_

Dawn used to be her favourite time of day. Often, as a girl, Mary Stuart had risen early just so she could capture the sight of the sun spilling across the world. She had romanticised about morning light, about awaking next to the person whom she loved with all her heart. She had envisioned it so clearly, she and the man she would spend the rest of her life with clasped in an embrace as the soft light of dawn bathed them.

Now, she is awake at the break of dawn for the wrong reasons. She is lying beside him, the man that she loves, but they are quite separate. Their flesh does not brush. They remain solitary, alone on opposite sides of the sprawling bed, both facing away from each other. Mary can hear him breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest as his lungs inflate before letting out the stale air that hangs between them.

This is not how she hoped to spend her mornings with him.

Marital bliss had quickly faded away as each new day did not bring the promise of hope, but rather impending doom. They had befallen hardship after hardship. True enough they had remained resilient and strong, faithful and true to one other through each terrible mishap that came their way, but Mary could feel it... even if Francis could not. There was something in the middle of them, an invisible veil that kept them at a careful arms length.

She swings herself out of the bed, no longer able to stand the expensive sheets and drapes that cover her. Goose flesh rising on her pale alabaster arms, she drifts to the window, still deep in thought. France, the country that she is partially responsible for stretches out endlessly before her very eyes. It's not quite as special to her as the rolling hills and craggy scenery of Scotland... in fact, it is no where near as important to her as her homeland.

No, she thinks quickly, shaking her head at herself. France is special to her... because it is special to him. France refined and pretty, Scotland raw and striking. With a small smile, she acknowledges that they are their countries. What was it her mother had always told her? _Opposites attract._ Perhaps that was true.

But her mother had always said it so... scathingly. So begrudgingly, with an eyeroll and a flip of her hand.

Mary's smile disappears. She understands.

Attraction is fleeting, meaningless even. You can look at a stranger and find yourself deeply drawn to their looks and beauty - it is what comes from that attraction that is of value. For she and Francis, it was love. Passionate and fiery. But it was sustaining the fire that was proving difficult.

Leaving the window, Mary begins dressing herself, struggling with an impressive gown before discarding it and picking out something she would never usually think to wear. Isolated, completely alone, she picks out her jewellry, weaving her crown into her mass of dark hair. Silently, so as not to wake Francis, she leaves their chamber, striding purposefully out into the morning.

•- - - - -•

The cold and crisp morning air refreshes him as it lashes across his cheeks. Putting an over-garment on had been an after thought when he was already halfway to the stables. Instead of turning back and trudging all the way he had just come, Sebastian decides to embrace the cool morning. Sweeping into the stables, he waves a greeting to the stable lad on duty. As always, with his youthful exuberance, the boy gives a small bow before scurrying along to the next stall, leaving Bash's black stallion alone.

Bash had always expressed a desire to tend to his own horse himself, something that the nobles had looked upon him scornfully for. He had not cared about what they thought of him; disdain washed over his head easily - he was the King's bastard, but he was free from the social regulations that condemned to his brother to a mundane life of political correctness. Now, things were different.

He was Francis' advisor and confidante, a position that entitled him to act with courtly respect and follow the strict regulations he had sought to distance himself from for his entire life. Certain obligations and responsibility had come from being his brother's advisor but, strangely, he did not resent them as he thought he would. He was however worried that Francis would have an aversion to him doing things considered 'lowly' and beneath him, such as feeding and grooming his own mount. Francis hadn't even seemed to notice or care, but had he done, Sebastian knew his title as 'Master of Horse and Hunt' would have protected him from any withering stares.

Bash sets to work grooming the enormous horse, lost in the rhythm of the brush strokes. Being with the animal had a curiously soothing effect on him. The company of the giant horse somehow made him think rationally when he had a difficult problem to mull through, or simply soothed him when he was feeling ill at ease. Even when he was without an issue, Bash enjoyed the company of the great black horse more than he enjoyed the company of most humans.

"I'd like to use a horse." The voice that interrupts the early morning peace of the stables is one that Bash is not accustomed to hearing, yet it is one that is so familiar to his ears. Surprised, he drops the brush on the floor before looking around the doorway of his horse's stall. Sure enough, she is there, larger than life. The stable boy is red faced, shocked about being addressed so politely when he is used to the gruelling harassment of the nobles. To be addressed kindly by a royal has seemed to render him dumb.

Mary is there, wide awake, her cheeks stained pink from the cold morning wind. The expensive gowns she usually wears have been swapped for a pair of creamy coloured breeches and tall leather riding boots that cling to her calves. She is still wearing a chain of exquisite design at her throat, a mark of the wealth that she possesses. When the boy fails to give Mary a response and continues to stare at her with confused, glazed eyes, Bash hurriedly steps in.

If Mary is surprised to see him at the stables so early in the morning, she does not show it. Instead, she nods her head, following him compliantly as he chooses a horse for her. When he returns with a saddle and bridle for the sweet-tempered bay mare, Mary intercepts his path.

"You'll do well to remember that I _do_ know how to tack up a horse," swiftly, Mary takes the tack from his arms and breezes into the stall. He watches her as she moves deftly, all of her actions concise and firm, yet not harsh. He has not been around her recently, his duties as Francis' deputy keeps him from spending much time within the walls of the castle - he has forgotten what it is like to be in her company.

Mary is not a normal girl of royal blood. Whilst she is both refined and courteous, well-spoken with a good political brain, she is a lover of the outdoors, captivated by the beauty of exploring the world around her. She also has never had any sort of aversion to tasks associated with people beneath her. Watching her with the horse, he is reminded of a time that feels as if it occurred eons ago... a time where they had shared rides through the countryside together, when a future for them may have been possible.

Hastily, he brushes the thoughts aside. Things are different now.

He found mutual affection and love with Kenna - Mary had always belonged to Francis, and still does. Wordlessly, Bash leaves Mary to the horse. Again, he settles into the rhythm of grooming his own steed. The firm brush strokes erase any of the tension that the memories of his time with Mary so often stirs in his guts. He isn't sure how long he brushes the horse for, but again, it is Mary's voice that rouses him from his thoughts.

"Will you join me?" She asks softly. She is holding onto the mare, ready to leave the stables. There is a hesitant sincerity in her voice, a sense of startling vulnerability that Bash has not seen from her in a long time. As if she has read his mind, Mary straightens her shoulders, tilting her chin up. "I think it would be unwise for me to ride alone when the country is in such peril."

Bash cannot help but sigh. He knows to ignore her would be a stupid decision, particularly if something happened to her - he did not wish to be on the recieving end of one of Francis' tirades, nor did he wish to be responsible for any harm that my come to her. Grudgingly, he tacks up his horse. Together, they leave the castle on horseback, covered in a blanket of silence.

"It's been a while since we've spent time together like this, hasn't it?" Mary eventually breaks the silence as they turn down a scenic track through the quieter part of the forest. Bash looks sideways at her. The young queen looks preoccupied. Her focus is not on riding, or on the views that she had always admired. Instead, she seems to be staring forward, her expression vacant like she was not really present.

"In fact, it's been a while since I've left the castle grounds. I've just been holed up dealing with nobles and Fra-" Sharply, she breaks off, her cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be talking about with this you."

A flash of pain lashes through his body. He winces before he can stop himself. When Mary reddens further, he knows that she caught sight of it too. He fights the desire to scornfully tell her that there was an obvious reason for the lack of time spent together that runs deeper than either of their duties, but he holds his tongue. After all, she is no longer just his friend. She is his Queen.

The atmosphere between them is strained. The conversation that patters between them futile; petty small talk had never been something that Bash was good at, and it only serves to hurt him even more. He cannot be the same around Mary, nor can she be the same around him. Their fates have ruined what it was they had, whether it be friendship or something more.

There is no space for fondness between them now.

* * *

><p>AN: This is my first Reign fic, and I would like to take a moment to point out that I am writing this solely because I'm currently in a state of loathing that the writers for this season have decided to cut out any possible interaction between Mary and Bash. I mean, what on earth is that about?! In my eyes, I don't see how they can be "done" so easily.

Although saying that, I'd also like to make it clear I am by no means a Frary basher or whatever, I do actually like Mary with Francis as well... but yes, this is dreamy idealistic little story. Let me know if you like it!

Also, feel free to catch up with me on Twitter ( leadclouds) sometimes I post sneak peaks of new chapters/stories, so if you're keen for updates, check in there!

-typedamon. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Full Summary: Set after 2x07. Disturbed by the rifts that are building in her marriage, Mary seeks a way to absolve she and Francis' emotional distance. In turn, she finds herself seeking solace in the arms of another.

**THE ENEMY  
><strong>Chapter Two

_"Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine."  
><em>

"You were awake early this morning," Francis comments on her absence from their marital bed as if it were something as unconcerning as the weather. Stonily, Mary sweeps past him, refusing to sit near him but at the opposite end of the lengthy table as she had done the previous day. As she slides wordlessly into her seat, she notices a look of pale disappointment cross his countenance. It is there for only a split-second before he coughs, busying himself with reading through the sheafs of parchment that have built up before him.

Good, Mary thinks savagely as she begins to sort through her own messages. Let him be hurt.

But hostility is not an emotion that Mary is accustomed to feeling, and it leaves her innards churning wretchedly. She wants nothing more than to abandon her position at the opposite end of the table and fly to his side, to fall into Francis' arms and pretend that there was nothing left in the wolrd but each other and the love they once so readily shared.

Quickly, she shakes it off. Childish thoughts and dreaming are becoming strangely addictive to her; she cannot lose herself to the desires that occupy both her heart and her head.

"Please leave us." It is Francis that breaks the leaden silence. His command is carried out instantly, the guardsman filing from the room in a smooth and orderly manner. They look deadly, Mary thinks as she analyses the speed with which they move, the armour that shines on their backs and the sword that occupies the hilts at their hips. But they are shamefully predictable.

The King and Queen of France are left quite alone. Mary tilts her chin upwards, dark eyes setttling on Francis' face. She is challenging him silently, wondering if today will be the day that he surprises her. Of course, he is as predictable as his guards. It is he who breaks the eye contact first, a pale flush creeping up his neck. Guilt colours him pink. It tells Mary all she needs to know.

Noisily, she scrapes her chair back across the ancient flagstones, the sound shrill and harsh. Her gown swishes as she makes a precise turn, the fabric causing a flutter that stirs the parchment on the table. Eyeing the doorway, she begins to make her way across the room with a purposeful stride.

"Mary!" Sharply, he calls her name. She can hear the undertone of panic mingling with command in his voice. Whilst Mary does come to a halt, she does not grant him the respect he wants: she refuses to turn and face him. "Mary..." Francis' tone is gentler now, even apologetic. Mary can feel her heart twisting. Her icy exterior almost cracks... Almost.

"Please sit down." Grudgingly, Mary complies to his request by returning to the table and perching lightly on the edge of her seat. Francis' eyes are flickering uncertainly over her features as he struggles to decipher her facial expression. It is one that Mary has found herself inadvertently perfecting - she is taking Catherine's advice. Mary is protecting her heart.

And her face? Her face is utterly unfathomable.

"If you do choose to return Scotland, I'll not blame you. But I could not ever forgive myself if you departed with us still on bad terms," Francis hesitates, inhaling shakily. "Can we fix this?"

"I don't know, Francis," Mary says bluntly. "Are you going to alter your response to the edict?"

Any trace of sincerity melts from Francis' expression as if somebody has just poured acid over is head. A muscle jumps in his jaw and a stiffness that both frightens and repulses Mary takes hold of his body. Shoulders set so still that someone could have mistaken him for a corpse, Mary knows that he will not say what she wants to hear. Hot liquid anger bubbles through the pit of her stomach. Frostily, she shakes her head slowly at him. "Then no, Francis. We cannot fix it at all."

"Mary, I cannot afford to lose my Catholic nobles or paint myself as an indecisive king!" Francis hisses, his body angling forward. Aggression for his cause makes his fingers clench into tight fists. "It would make me seem weak to my adversaries-"

Disgusted, Mary slams her palms into the table. "So you would condemn our friends, your own _cousin_ for fear of appearing weak?" She is shouting at him now, pent up frustration intertwining with fury that rears through her body like the head of a snake. When she strikes, her voice is not loud and charged, but cold and biting. "Well then, if you can afford to lose the Protestant nobles, you can afford to lose your wife along with them."

The chasm of silence that she leaves behind her as she stalks from the room is deafening.

o - - - - o

As a child, Mary Stewart had sworn to herself that fresh air and the freedom of the great outdoors could cure any internal ailment or absolve any troubles that plagued her heart. As a woman, she found herself hopelessly wishing that it were true. Bitterly, she realises that there is no magical cure for an anxious and pained heart - in the early hours of the morning, she would have been able to think otherwise. As she had pressed her horse into a gallop through the woods, the speed and wind that whipped her cheeks had swatted away the tendrils of misery that had knotted around her chest.

Now, barely hours after she had felt at peace, they were back... but this time they were not merely tendrils of misery, they were thickets of thorns.

Francis had a habit that was unfortunate for a royal, and that was wearing his heart on his sleeve. Acting did not come easily to him; he had not inherited the ability of concealment that had saved his parents hides a great many times. Commonly, the way in which Francis always had his emotions so simply analysed by all surrounding him would have been a horrendous disadvantage... but he and Mary, they had been a , they had been able to discover creative solutions to the problems they were faced with, but now, Francis had opted to isolate himself from her. Kicked aside by Francis' new found (and considerably poor) powers of evasion, Mary was hurting all over.

As a queen, she was offended. As a wife, she felt crippled.

Exhausted by her husband's emotional distance, Mary falls heavily onto a bench. A birdsong surrounds her, sweet and beautiful in a high and clear soprano. It fills the empty sky. It should have been uplifting, but to Mary's ears, it sounded like a mournful lament. Though there are no clouds in the rolling empty skies above her, there is no warmth either. Shivering, Mary draws her arms around herself, muttering cruel obscenities about her own stupidity under her breath. She should have thought to bring a cloak.

"You'll catch your death if your not careful." Startled, Mary's head snaps upwards. She finds herself staring into the bright blue eyes of Bash. He is stood before her, his face carefully devoid of emotion as he approaches the bench and drapes a heavy travelling cloak over her shoulders.

Dwarfed by the enormous outer garment, Mary realises how frail and vulnerable she must look. Embarrassed by the way she had already began to huddle into the cosiness of the cloak's confines, still warm from the lingering traces of Bash's body, Mary straightens her shoulders.

"You don't have to do that." Though he says it softly, there is something else in his voice. A few long seconds tick by before it occurs to her what he said. Blinking at Francis' bastard brother, Mary realises he had just scolded her.

"Do what?" She snaps indignantly, aware her voice is too loud, too defensive.

Bash roll's his eyes before he sighs at Mary, shaking his head at her. "You don't have to pretend that you're made of stone. I know that you are a human, Mary. You don't need to put a facade on around me."

His sincerity renders her speechless. Instead of trying to think of something eloquent to say, Mary busies herself with examining a loose thread on the hem of his cloak.

"When we rode out together this morning, you said something about Fran-" Bask breaks off when he notices that Mary has visibly stiffened.

Suddenly, she transforms. She is not a weak and frail girl. She is Mary, Queen of Scots. "Bash, I am not discussing this with you." Mary shrugs the heavy cloak of her shoulders, thrusting it back into his arms with unnecessary force. "I am your Queen. You'll do well to treat me as such instead of coddling me like you would a child, or Kenna."

"Yes, my Queen." Face empty of anything but cordial respect, Bash bows low. Mary does not wait to see him straighten up, but turns her back on him, marching back to the castle.

She's become talented at making exits.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm not sure on how much I like this chapter but I wanted to get it up, I have a lot planned for this :)

Thanks to anybody who reviews, favourites, follows or even just has the good will to give this a fleeting skim read, it's massively appreciated! If you've got any questions, you can of course ask me in reviews and I'll get back to you, or you can ask me here too.

Apologies if this chapter has any formatting issues or silly mistakes, I'm working on my tablet to do this and my tablet is the most uncoperative gadget the world has ever encountered so it doesn't allow me to actually see when things are in itallics or not - hooray for making my life easy. -_-

-typedamon x


	3. Chapter 3

Full Summary: Set after 2x07. Disturbed by the rifts that are builing in her marrage, Mary searhes for a way to absolve the emotional distance between she and Francis. In turn, she finds herself seeking solace in the arms of another.

**THE ENEMY  
><strong>Chapter Three

_"Arms wide open, I walk alone.  
><em>I'm no hero...  
>And I'm not made of stone."<p>

Narcisse is a dangerous man.

Francis' thoughts are savage as he conjures the image of the man with a greying beard, but a body as strong and wirey as a soldier of half his age. Francis has been standing at the window of his chamber for too long now, torturing himself with replaying the memory of Mary stalking away from him that morning over and over again. It's haunting him and frankly, he is revolted with himself that he allowed her to even move before they'd found some form of absolution.

Sending Mary to Scotland would keep her safe. It would keep her alive. But sending Mary to Scotland would also ensure her hatred of him... it would lead to a barren and unfulfilling, emotionless relationship.

Bitterly, Francis pictures Mary again. She has changed in a great many ways, ripped from her childhood far too soon. She was still as caring and heart-warmingly considerate as she had always been, but her choices came with a sharp political twist, the inevitable mark of a royal. She had also hardened in other ways; she had been crafted stiff and rigid by the pain and heartache that had been sent her way. She had watched one of her ladies-in-waiting, one of the few people on the cruel face of the earth that she could consider a close friend give birth to her husband's baby. She had not turned them away as any normal woman would, but welcomed them with her arms open, embracing their problems and wondering what _more_ she could do to help them. Shortly after, she had lost her own unborn baby. Despite her harrowing and tragic loss, Mary had not faltered. She had pressed on.

Mary was practically unrecognisable from the fifteen year old girl that had arrived in France not too long ago. She had laughed so readily, danced so heartily and shared her overencumbering love of the world with all near her. She was popular, not because she was due to become the queen, but because she was moral and righteous. The lightness of her heart positively shone. It made her radiant.

Now, she was stripped of that infectious flare, her youthful exuberance extinguished.

She was, of course, still beautiful enough to break many hearts, but it was in a much quieter, more serious way. She wore the burdens of her queenship with formidable sophistication.

She is not a little girl any more.  
>She is a woman, who's personal tragedy is written quite plainly across her face for the world to see.<p>

Francis begins pacing. He had never understood why it became such a habit until he'd started to do it himself. Now, whenever he was alone, tormented by his own woes, he found himself lapsing into the rhythm of it, smoothly striding from one side of the room to other, counting his steps. At five hundred, it dawned on him that Mary was quite spectacular. Typically, any sign of weakness displayed by a ruler, no matter how fleeting, made them vulnerable. Mary however had managed to craft it to her advantage. She had become a relatable person to her people, someone they looked up to, but also, someone they feared. She is not weakened by her past - she is strengthened by it, and she dons her experiences as naturally as she does her lavish gowns.

"You look like your father when you do that." Alarmed, Francis wheels around to confront the intruder. He had not even heard the door open. He is anxious, his fingers flying to the longsword at his hip. The manouvre is not unnoticed by the hawk-like eyes of his mother. Her first words had sounded vaguely worried. Now, her face is rife with concern.

"Francis," she says in a low voice, motherly concern flooding her tone. These days, it is such a rarity for her voice to contain anything other than businesslike formality, although it is true that she had become oddly impassioned whenever Mary is mentioned. Francis knows that the two of them have bonded, forced to work together and co-exist as harmoniously as possible by a great many undeserirable circumstances, but perhaps the affection that Catherine would astutely deny ever having for Mary runs far deeper than Francis had originally anticipated.

"Francis, you are already cracking." Catherine gently takes her son by the hand and drags him to the bed. Together they sit at the end of it. "And already, your bedroom is becoming colder than mine and Henry's ever was."

"You might notice the fire is not lit, mother." Francis retorts stiffly, an evasion of her implication.

"You know full well what I mean." Catherine snaps. She is no longer speaking in her soothing low tone. Already, patience has failed her, leaving her irritable and waspish. "You have enemies, Francis. It's driving you to madness, even a fool could see that. There is one person in this entire castle who has a mind nimble enough and eyes perceptive enough to tug you out of whatever rut you've found yourself stuck in, yet you are choosing to push her away."

Mary's face flashes through his mind. Her pale complexion, those large does eyes, her strong jawline... So often, Francis had watched those brown eyes transform. She would undergo a metamorphosis from someone so soft and compliant to a woman who was dark with defiance and mutiny, coursing with her self-righteous, royal power. Mary was invariably good, unspeakably honest, a woman who could somehow remain utterly selfless in the face of the most daunting opponents.

She was a far better person than Francis could ever hope to be... and by _God_, he loved her.

He loved her with every fibre of his being, which was why he could not and would not allow her to fall from grace alongside him. To protect her, she had to leave. She had to hate him.

He would simply have to deal with it.

"If you'll not include Mary, include _me!_" Catherine hisses, leaning over her son, eyes intent and focused. It is a stare that he hd squirmed under many times in his life, but now he finds himself curiously impervious to it's unnerving power. His strength - it comes from the knowledge of what he must do...

Catherine has ruined his life innumerable times in order to try and save it. Through ever dastardly scheme she has formulated, it has always been for his benefit, to save him. Through it all, it has only made him realise the insanity that such a strong love drives its victims to. He loves his mother, and he must save her too.

"No," he says shortly, rising. Standing upright, Francis is taller than his mother. In fact, he towers above her, even when she haughtily draws herself up to full heigh to match his strength. "I'm making plans for you to return to Italy."

"What?" Catherine splutters, completely caught off guard by his spontanieuty. Her skin becomes ruddy with the colour of her temper. "You'll do no such thing!"

"I'll do whatever I want," Francis relays darkly. He forces himself to smirk at her, to make a face that is sly and arrogant. A face that one could easily begin to loathe. "Because I'm the King."

Catherine laughs, and it is dry and humourless. hat is your justification th going to be? People will talk and ask questions, and what are you going to say to them? That you were scared-"

Francis mocks his mother's laughter, a cruel imitation that has her lapsing into a stunned silence. "I'll tell them the truth," he says, his voice dripping with an entirely false, sugary sweetness. "That I can't stand your lecherous presence."

o - - - - o

"He said _what?_" Mary is aghast, shocked by the frenzied way in which Catherine recounted her news as she clawed at Mary's wrists, dragging her into her private quarters. Though they are enveloped by sweet, decadent smells, both women are staring at one another with expressions that are twisted by disgust, as if they had caught the scent of something putrid.

Mary sinks onto the edge of Catherine's bed, a hand fluttering to her throat as her mind works ferociously beneath her skull. "He encouraged me to return to Scotland," Mary eventually whispers, lifting her eyes to gaze at the older woman. A wave of nauseating hurt pierces Mary's body. "He really is hiding something."

Before, she had merely suspected Francis of witholding something, but now it was undeniable. He was making plans to send the two women who were best equipped to deal with potential political disasters away from the castle.

"Do not let him weaken you, Mary!" Catherine's composure has returned, her strong voice reverberating through the room. "You need to keep a rational head to think this through."

Mary nods, choosing to remain silent. She does not trust her voice to remain steady. To avoid speaking until she is sure she can retain some form of dignity, Mary gazes into the amber flames in the fireplace. They crackle and dance, feasting merrily on the kindling, licking at the brickwork. The joy of the flames heats the entire room, but Mary's body remains as wintry as her heart. Mary feels her eyes glaze over as she retracts into her thoughts.

She would have said that the rift between she and Francis had first made itself visible when she had had her miscarriage. Strained by the fact his wife had still not prooduced an heir therefore making her less desirable to be seated on the throne had put Francis under emotional duress. She conjures an image of him in her mind, his smiles weak and fleeting, a pinched, tight look to his face... but now that she thought about it, his unease had been apparent before then. In fact, she could remember him looking distinctly stressed and somewhat sickly not long after Lola had returned to the castle with his child...

"_Mother!_" Petulant and shrill, Princess Claude shrieks as she bustles into the bedroom like a tornado. The doors slam behind her and she stands with her hands balled into tight fists. Her corset is cinched so tight it pushes her breasts almost up to her chin, making practically impossible not to stare at them. Her mouth is stained such a sultry and seductive red that it almost looks sinful. Ringlets exactly the same shade of autumnal golden brown as her mother's hang down her back. Claude does not pay a seconds notice to Mary, but engages in a fierce stare down with her mother before bursting out: "Mother, you can't just send me away!"

Mary gazes at the scene unfurling before her, a tiny bemused smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The situation is positively ironic. Catherine, so insulted that her own son wishes to ship her of to her homeland was planning on doing just that to her own daughter.

"You're quite the dysfunctional family, aren't you?" Mary sighs, rising from her place, ready to leave the mother and daughter to their own devices.

"Well don't forget, Mary, that you are also part of this dysfunctional family now!" Catherine calls to her departing back, sounding thoroughly disgruntled.

The world they occupy is undoubtedly a cruel and cold place, shrouded in secrets and corruption. But it is moments such as these that Mary clings to, storing them close to her heart. A tiny but heartfelt smile is emblazoned as she walks away. Catherine's words have touched her heart.

o - - - - o

"Kenna!" Mary calls, locating her friend in the throne room talking earnestly to a group of nobles and their wives. Bash is loitering protectively beside her like a personal body guard. For a second, Mary and Bash's eyes clash horribly together. Shrugging away his stare and throwing back her shoulders, Mary refuses to even acknowledge his presence. Instead, she reaches directly for her friend, clasping Kenna's hand. "Have you seen Lola?"

Kenna's grip on Mary's fingers momentarily slackens, the smile on her pretty face faltering. Hastily, Kenna rearranges her features into the image of someone who is relaxed and at peace. "No, Mary, I haven't."

Dropping Kenna's hand as if it has burnt her, Mary glowers at her friend, entirely unconcerned by the interested stares she is generating from the gaggle of people surrounding them. "Do not lie to me, Kenna. This is important."

Kenna puffs out air as she glances sideways at Bash. Then, she carefully scrutinizes the nobles who are pretending not to eavesdrop. Pursing her lips, Kenna gestures for Mary to follow her away from the crowd. Feeling Bash's eyes boring into her back, Mary hurriedly directs Kenna behind a pillar.

"Honestly Mary, I thought you'd be asking after Greer," Kenna confesses in a low voice, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder. Mary's guts churn uncomfortably inside her. She knows how it must look to Kenna, as if she is seeking Lola to settle a domestic involving Francis and the baby, but the reality is very different. Mary had seen the first of Greer's injuries for being a Protestant's wife - she had accompanied her friend to the infirmary to have the ragged cut cleaned and fixed. Now, the skin was pulled tightly together, a mess of lumpy stitches on her snow white forearm.

"This will help Greer," Mary responds abruptly. "What I'm doing will save everybody, but first I need to see Lola."

Kenna bites her lip, her eyes closing as she internally battles with herself.

"Kenna!" Mary hisses urgently. "Every minute I waste here waiting for you talk knocks away chances for Louis, Castleroy, Greer and _all _of the Protestant nobles!"

"Oh _alright,_" Kernna moans, caving in to Mary's will. "She's with Narcisse but-"

"_Narcisse?_" Mary repeats, appalled. "Where? Why?"

"Look, I don't what exactly is between them but she's visited his estate a couple of times and they're walking in the grounds right now, but _please, _Mary-"

Mary is already storming away to the front steps of the castle. Her mind is bleeding, hurt by Lola's betrayal. Mary cannot comprehend why Lola would consider spending any amount of voluntary time with a man as cruel and cold hearted as Narcisse. It _is _betrayal, betrayal of the highest order. Lola is fraternising with a man who has pracitcally commisioned the deaths of so many innocents, including one of Lola's closest friends.

She can see them by the lake. They are walking side by side, and although they are not touching, there is something between them. Mary has seen it before with Greer and Laithe: it's as if they are bound by an invisible cord, not physically visible, but unmistakeable all the same. In the case of Narcisse and Lola, Mary does not find it endearing, but repulsive.

She intercepts their walk, her shoulders back, head held high and a self-confident swing to her hips. She has arranged her face into a polite smile of complete cordiality.

"Mary!" Lola exclaims, her voice high. Her darts from Narcisse and back to Mary again before she stumbled over her words. "I... uh, well we... were just-" Lola breaks off, her cheeks reddening when she realises that she has nothing to say. Mary is pleased that her friend has the decency to at least look shame-faced, Narcisse on the other hand is smirking arrogantly, his eyes shining.

"I don't care what you were doing, Lola. I need to talk to you." Mary says briskly. When neither Narcisse or Lola begin to make a move, Mary fixes her eyes on Narcisse. "_Alone._"

"Ah, she's going to criticise you for the company you keep," Narcisse says, still smirking. "No matter, I will take my leave. Until next time, Lady Lola." With a gracious dip of his head, Narcisse takes Lola's hand and raises the back of it to his lips. There, he leaves her with soft kiss pressed into the skin of her hand, and not so much as respectful bow in Mary's direction.

Her voice hard edged, Mary rounds on her friend. "He's right, I'm not impressed by your choice of company."

Lola sighs, biting her lip. "I know you are not particularly fond of him, but Narcisse really is not as monstrous as he leads you and the rest of the world to believe. I mean, yes he's done some awful things, but so have I and so have you."

The tip of Lola's nose is pink from the cold winter air, but her green eyes are as guileless as ever. No matter how misguided her impressions of Narcisse are, Lola obviously believes what she thinks is true. "You don't know, do you?" Mary questions sadly, hating that she has to relay even more bad news to Lola.

"Know what?"

Mary purses her lips together. Greer had pleaded with Mary to not share the news of Castleroy's faith with anybody. As it stood, Kenna only knew because of... her husband. But Lola... Lola needed to know for the greater good. Obviously, she had seen some tiny speck of something redeeming within the storm of darkness that shrouds Narcisse. As her friend, Mary's know it would be wrong to not enlighten Lola to what kind of man she was growing closer to. "Narcisse constructed an edict," Mary begins slowly, careful with her words. Her eyes never leave Lola's face.

"Yes," Lola cuts in, eyebrows arching, unimpressed. "He's a noble, it's hardly surprising that he has requests."

"It's an edict that condemns all Protestants... It condemns friends of our, like Louis Conde who took a stand to help -me-... and it condemns Greer." Mary pauses, her heart clenching painfully beneath her ribcage. "Lola, it condemns them all to death."


	4. Chapter 4

((**Author's Note: **Hi all! Just wanted to leave a quick note to say that I'm soooo grateful for the response to this, I really wasn't expecting much interest if I'm honest. All your reviews are very encouraging and I appreciate them tonnes! Here's my next chapter. As a pre-warning it might seem a little slow paced, but I promise you it's a pivotal moment for the characters featured. I imagine I'll be getting another chapter in before Christmas, but on the chance I don't, have a wonderful Christmas guys!))

**THE ENEMY  
><strong>Chapter Four

_"'Sail to me, sail to me; _  
><em>Let me enfold you.' <em>  
><em>Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you."<em>

The news of Greer's potential demise had shocked Lola into giving up what little she knew. The lady-in-waiting had looked uncomfortable and nervous, throwing furtive glances over her shoulder as if she were waiting to be struck down by some invisible foe. When confronted about her obvious anxieties Lola had baulked. Wide eyed like a rabbit running from a predator, Lola had merely informed Mary that she'll not betray those she had said she'd keep promises and secrets for.

For several hours, only two things were running through Mary's mind: Narcisse and a nanny. Her obsessive thinking had made her appear distant, perhaps even a slightly slow-witted when it came to sitting alongside Francis in the throne room and hearing reports from the nobles. She had been silent, trapped within her own fervent thoughts. When questions had been explicitly directed to her, Mary had blinked rapidly as if surfacing from a long sleep. Often, she had to ask questions to be repeated. Eventually, when she could no longer endure the sidelong glances from her husband and the narrow-eyed scrutiny of the nobles, Mary did not say a word but upped and left.

Alone in the chambers she shares with Francis, Mary has nothing to distract her from trying to piece together how Francis' choice to disclude Mary from any of his troubles and important choices regarding the ruling of France fits in with Narcisse and the termination of Lola's favourite Nurse for their son. Apparently, Francis had not given Lola a feasible reason. Mary herself remembers how Francis had appeared in their room that same evening, pallid and shaken as if he had seen some kind of apparition. He'd even complained of nausea.

With a heavy sigh, Mary falls into the straight backed chair in front of her mirror. She herself notices similarities between her own countenance and Francis': they are both becoming weary, fatigued with emotional exhaustion as they battle not only nobles who are wild with demands, but each other too.

_Nobles wild with demands... _The thought nudges her, echoing through her skull. Then, Mary is sitting bolt upright, no longer slumped and tired but alert with a new kind of energy. It hadn't been long after the nanny was removed from her position that Narcisse had began to spit out his requests. Francis had barely put up a fight to most but bent to the noble's will almost instantaneously. Could it be that there _was _a link between Narcisse and the nursery maid?

Mary's small moment of victory when she managed to align the two in some way is short-lived. Again, she finds herself exhaling heavily. "A nanny," Mary says aloud, frowning at herself in the mirror. "A _nanny_."

She is not sure how many times she utters the word. It's as if some small, childish segment of her hopes that in some way repetition will bring enlightenment but instead it just leaves her hollow and frustrated. If Narcisse had been threatening Francis' baby, the termination of the nanny would have fixed the issue. Furthermore Francis' would have been able to put Narcisse to death. Vexation has her hands sliding into her dark hair. Engrossed in thought, Mary twists a lump of the thick dark strands around her fingers. A searing pain begins at the base of the hair, but she ignores it. Heat building in her scalp, Mary continues to twine the hair tighter around her fingers. There is a moment of excruciating pain followed by a throbbing sensation at the nape of her neck.

She looks at her hand. There is a messy lock of thick raven dark hair clutched in her fist.

"Why didn't you come to dinner?" Francis voice is loud and strong as he bustles through the double doors. It combats the dazed confusion that the sight of her own tousled hair in her in fist had encapsulated her in. Hastily, Mary drops the hair onto the flagstones, using her foot to kick them beneath the dresser, out of sight.

"I had a filling lunch," Mary stands to greet him. "I wasn't hungry."

Although she is only half-lying to him, it is an untruth all the same. Her guilt only increases as Francis sweeps her into his arms, his embrace firm and convincing. There is something utterly tender about it, as if the way he is pulling her tight into his chest is supposed to convey everything he has failed to say recently. As his lips graze across her forehead, Mary allows herself to settle in his embrace. For a moment, enveloped in his scent, Mary is able to let the rest of the world collapse. She can almost believe that nothing between them has been spoiled.

All too soon, the embrace ends. She stops herself from clinging to him like a desperate child, but cannot help herself but give him a glance that lingers a few too seconds long. Turning away, she removes her earrings and sets them delicately atop the dresser. Behind her, she can hear Francis undressing. With a careful nonchalance with only a small measure of curiosity induced, Mary speaks. "Catherine tells me you wish for her to return to Italy."

Though she has not posed it as a question, Francis responds to it as such. "Sometimes I feel the castle and the country would function better without her presence." There's a pause. "I'd forgotten how close you two had become." There is something biting in his addition to his initial answer. Francis' bitterness has Mary's hackles rising before she can stop herself.

"Well," she says loftily as she turns to appraise him with hard eyes. "It's difficult to be close to someone when you don't talk to them. Catherine _does _talk to me."

She sees his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows hard. "I just find it curious that you're able to forgive my mother for spending an entire year plotting your death yet you're unable to reprieve me-"

"Your mother plotted my death because she thought it would save _you!_" Mary interjects loudly. She shakes her head at him in disbelief. "Francis, a mother's first thought is preservation of her _child_, a being that she breathed life into! Of course if she is given an opportunity to eliminate the one that she believes to responsible for ending her child's life she will take it! That situation is entirely incomparable to the barbaric damnation of _hundreds, _possibly _thousands _because you are too _weak _to stand up to people beneath you!"

"Mary, you do not understand." Francis growls through gritted teeth. His has straightened his shoulders, squaring them as he stares at her with the force of a thousand men.

"Then help me to understand!" Mary cries, wringing her hands in despair. "Stop shutting me out!"

She realises how close she is standing to him then. Francis' breath is coming harshly now. It blows across her skin like a cold wind. Only minutes earlier, being close to him had been comforting. Now, it frightens her. His face is taut and pinched. His bluey grey eyes, usually like a tranquil body of water are a churning ocean. Never before has Mary seen any similarities between Francis and his father; now she is seeing them everywhere. Controlled by fear of losing what they have, playing a game that only keeps the strong happy, a refusal to acknowledge that the oppressed will rise to become the oppressors... lies and manipulation. They trailed behind his father like a cloak. Mary can see the weight of it on Francis' own shoulders.

"Mary," his voice drops. "I can't let you in. I can't. I'm just asking that you trust me."

Mary's heart drops to her stomach. "I'm sorry Francis. Sorry that I am no longer your equal. I'm sorry I can't give you the blind faith you want either."

o - - - - o

"I don't understand..." Kenna says slowly, shaking her head as she stares wide-eyed at Bash. "What will this mean for France?"

Bash exhales heavily, rubbing a hand tiredly across his forehead. The day has been a long one, and he wants nothing more than to drop off into a deep and dreamless sleep. Kenna on the other hand is inquisitive. She is full of questions, brimming with energy and a thirst for knowledge. As always, Bash has shared with her as much as he feels he is able to, yet the flow of questions he cannot answer is ceaseless. However, her latest question has nothing to do with him being unable to disclose the information - he simply cannot piece together what a schism between his brother and Mary will do to the country they rule.

"I don't know Kenna," he confesses, rolling onto his side so he has a better view of his wife. "Francis is the king which means he will always have the final word, but Mary is a powerful ally to have. She's brave, quick-witted, clever... she's a real fighter."

Kenna's breath hitches in her throat as if she is struggling to breathe around a lump there. Concerned, Bash slides closer to her, tucking an arm protectively around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. Kenna is as stiff as a plank of wood. Lightly, Bash rests his chin on top of her head. "Don't worry, Kenna. As much as I fear for what would happen if Mary's faith in Francis dwindles, I know that there is a solution. We are fixing it."

"Who's 'we'?" Kenna asks sharply.

Surprised, Bash leans back so he can see her face. Her olive complexion has paled, leaving her looking drained. Her jaw is clenched in a way that he's seen many times; something is bothering her that she is determined to get to the bottom of. He wants to kiss her, to distract her from her worries, but he knows that any attempt to quell her rapidly thinking mind will only irritate her. Instead, he softly detaches himself from her. "Francis and I. I'm not in any danger, Kenna. Try to sleep. Try to worry about this less. It's not your problem, there isn't anything you can change."

Kenna's face twists into a scowl. "I don't see why it has to be _your _problem either."

"I'm the King's deputy, it's my duty-"

"Always so honourable and duteous," Kenna rolls her eyes at him, shaking her head. "I remember a time when you were unpredictable, slightly selfish and completely unconcerned with matters at court."

_So do I. _They are the words he is about to say out loud, but they die in his throat. They were days when he had been able to take certain liberties without repercussions. He had lived freely, riding and hunting, messing around with swords to his hearts content. He had done whatever he wanted when he wanted. There had been little of real importance in his mind. His only concerns regarded Catherine's growing hostility toward his mother. But then Mary had happened. She had breezed into his life, taken him wholly by surprise. He continued to take his liberties, but things had seemed smaller and more petty, ridiculous and unwholesome. His thoughts were consumed by a girl - a girl who had taken him and plunged him into a world he'd always consciously chose to stay away from. She opened his eyes to the bigger picture. She enlightened him. She challenged him. She pushed him. Maybe she even lo-

Abruptly, Bash catches himself. That was a different time. A time that feels ancient and foreign.

But as he drops off to the sleep he has been craving since he collapsed into bed hours ago, he cannot stop himself dreaming of the girl who always laughed the loudest and the fought the hardest... A girl with ebony dark hair and alabaster skin.


End file.
